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Jan 2013
He talks to me through the radio,
Crooning out my name
To a catchy tune.
It’s stuck in my head.
I welcome the torture.
Your forecast predicts
Rain clouds and harsh winds.
I’ll pretend it’s spring
And the sky is sunny.
The only rain
Will be my tears
Watering the weeds
That have overgrown in my
Quaint garden.
Circa 1994
Written by
Circa 1994  Florida
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